


Aziraphale vs The Great War

by charliebrown1234



Series: 5 Times Aziraphale was Almost Discorporated and One Time He Actually was [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 21:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19839172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234/pseuds/charliebrown1234
Summary: It’s summer 1918, and Aziraphale’s head is going to discorporate him. It is aching and throbbing as he walks back to the bookshop and the city of London is suffused with suffering and sickness.Aziraphale overextends himself healing the sick during the Great War, and Crowley is there to help.Edit 10/17/19 to change the Bentley to a generic car because it's 1918 and Crowley's Bentley hasn't been invented yet.





	Aziraphale vs The Great War

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pawns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19275886) by [Wizard95](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95). 



It’s summer 1918, and Aziraphale’s head is going to discorporate him. It is aching and throbbing as he walks back to the bookshop and the city of London is suffused with suffering and sickness. 

He’s been working nonstop for the past few years, mainly by discretely visiting local hospitals to help the young men invalidated home. They come to the hospital with grievous wounds and broken spirits, crying for their mothers and flinching at loud noises. He does his best to help them of course, but sometimes there isn’t anything he can do. 

After a particularly brutal string of months in 1915, he is tempted to shut himself into the bookshop and just stay there until the war is over. Even a moment’s respite from the constant suffering would be a blessing. But every day, he drags himself out of the shop and to the nearest hospital. His own personal crusade against the war. 

But then, then, Aziraphale receives news from upstairs that the war is almost over. He’s almost done. No more boys dying and no more parents weeping at bedsides. Just a few more months. 

Then comes the influenza. The already overcrowded hospitals become health risks, and Aziraphale stretches himself to try and help as many people as possible. There are just so many, and he can’t possibly be in that many places at once - 

Aziraphale’s thoughts scatter as his head spikes painfully. He ends up leaning against a nearby building, pushing his hands fruitlessly into his eyes to try and alleviate the hurt. Sparks of light flash beneath his palms. 

Aziraphale reaches for his angelic essence to try and ease the discomfort, but even that feels painful. If Aziraphale were asked to describe it, he would liken it to having a blister. He’s reached for his essence so repeatedly and demandingly in the past four years that it simply won’t cooperate without pain. Aziraphale releases the power with a wince.

He pushes himself back into walking, seeking the respite of the bookshop. As he goes, everything seems to make the pain worse. The filtered sunlight through the clouds, voices on the street, even the smell of food stands. He finds himself reeling like a drunkard with a hand to his forehead and the people of London give him a wide berth. 

Then, blessedly, the bookshop is in front of him. The quiet is only broken by the roar of a motor as a car pulls up to the curb. 

Aziraphale grunts as the engine sound rumbles through his head, but the twin headlights are the larger concern. They bore directly into his brain like drill bits, and he is briefly impressed by how painful it is before his thoughts skitter away.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley crows. “How the hell are you?” The demon throws himself carelessly out of the car and slams the door shut behind him. 

“I’m fine, thank you.” Perhaps if he plays nice, Crowley will go away. 

“It’s been an age, hasn’t it? What have you been up to?” It’s true, Aziraphale hasn’t seen Crowley since the war started. The demon looks tired and tightly wound. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley is closer now, almost leaning into Aziraphale’s personal space. 

“Hmmm?” 

“I asked you a question, angel,” Crowley says. Aziraphale’s head throbs painfully. 

“Terribly sorry. What did you say?” Aziraphale fumbles with the keys, fingers clumsy and thick. They slip out of his hands and clatter to the ground. He winces. 

“I asked what you’ve been up to,” Crowley continues. He seems anxious. 

“Oh, this and that,” Aziraphale replies noncommittally. He bends down for the keys, but the change in altitude has his vision blurring and sparking. He pauses for a moment, bent over. If he could just get inside the blessed shop!

Crowley twitches at a loud sound in the street and snaps his fingers to unlock the front doors. “In you go, angel, lots of catching up to do.” Aziraphale is bustled inside the shop with a sigh of relief and his head quiets for a moment in the dark bookshelves. 

All he has to do is make tea, chat with Crowley, then he can go put his head down. The headaches have been getting worse over the past year and he’s found the best thing to do is lay in the dark and wait them out. Most times they ease with rest, but when he returns to miracling limbs and easing sickness, the pain returns with a vengeance. 

The only time the pain completely disappears is when he falls asleep. However, last time he had tried that he had slept for a week, and scores of people had died needlessly. Therefore, he’s resolved to wait ‘til the war is over. 

He’s beginning to regret that idea. Even in the darkened bookshop his head continues to pound wildly and it isn’t helped by Crowley switching on the lights. Their incandescent bulbs buzz like saws in his ear, and the light makes everything unbearably painful to look at. He shuffles quickly towards the kitchen, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. 

He pauses for a moment as his head swims, and places a hand on the wall for stability. God, his head! But Crowley is looking back at him, quick, stand up, nothing’s wrong. 

Aziraphale eases himself into the brightly lit kitchen with a wince and heads for the kettle. A brief detour at the sink for water, then he is lighting a match. There is a gentle _fwamoof _as the gas ignites. In his peripheral vision, he sees Crowley flinch.__

____

He’d love to inquire about the demon’s health (he’s acting remarkably similar to some of the young men he has treated) but a bolt of pain picks this moment to stab through his head. He sits clumsily at the table across from Crowley and tries not to let the pain show on his face. 

“You were, uh,” Aziraphale’s head throbs again, “You were telling me what you’ve been up to?”

“No, I don’t think I was,” says Crowley, evasive. 

“Oh.” There is silence in the kitchen as Aziraphale struggles to come up with a topic of conversation. 

“How about that tea then?” Crowley says, slightly panicked. He snaps his fingers and the kettle whistles in alarm, finding itself boiling hot several minutes too early.

Aziraphale also feels hot and he carelessly peels off his overcoat and pulls apart his bow tie. The kettle screaming is only increasing the pain in his head and he glares at it as he pulls his tie free from his collar. Marginally cooler, he finds himself capable of reaching back a hand to turn off the gas. 

Crowley, for his part, hasn’t moved at all from the table and is instead staring blankly at the formerly screaming kettle. A niggle of worry teases at Aziraphale under the steady beat of his pounding head.

“Crowley, my dear?” No response, save for the demon’s face twisting slightly in distress. Shell shock, perhaps? “Crowley, you’re with me in the bookshop.” Aziraphale reaches out a hand and touches Crowley’s shoulder, headache overruled by the overwhelming need to help. 

Crowley starts under Aziraphale’s hand, gasping, “What?!” He is stiff and tense, and his black shades obscure his eyes.

“Nothing, my dear,” Aziraphale replies. “I was just wondering what tea you’d like?” With Crowley no longer in distress, Aziraphale’s headache returns with a vengeance. It is blinding, excruciating, and he can barely string two thoughts together. All that’s going through his head is ‘make tea’ and ‘lie down’. 

Dimly, he hears Crowley say, “Whatever you’re having is fine, angel.” He blindly grabs the nearest tea tin and yanks off the lid, confronted with the overwhelming odor of mint. 

His brain goes haywire. Pain shoots up through his forehead, saliva pools in his mouth, and the room sways alarmingly. 

He mutters out a faint, “Excuse me,” before staggering out of the kitchen towards the water closet he’d installed as a lark in the 1850s.

* * *

Crowley watches him go, concerned. When he’d shown up, he’d expected Aziraphale to be less bubbly than usual (they were in the middle of a war after all), but the angel looked ill instead, face pale and eyes tight. He has no clue what could be ailing the angel, besides maybe sensing London’s general misery. The war hasn’t been kind to anyone.

Then, inside, Aziraphale moves like his corporation is ninety-five. His stiff, careful steps make Crowley anxious, as does the stilted conversation. He’d miracled the kettle hot just to escape the silence. But the high pitched whistle had thrown him back into the trenches, mud flying and ears roaring--

But then Aziraphale was in front of him, bringing him back to the present. Somehow, between the kettle boiling and Crowley panicking, he’d also removed his bow tie and coat. Crowley’s mind stuck on that point as he clawed himself back to the present. 

Aziraphale bolting out of the room was the last straw. Crowley stands decisively and follows the sounds of vomiting to the back of the shop, where he finds a small water closet. It’s pitch black inside, and with a toggle of the switch he sees Aziraphale, who is clinging to the toilet bowl and messily bringing up bile.

* * *

Aziraphale’s head is beating in pain, each fruitless retch ratcheting up the agony. It’s like ice picks are digging into his skull, and Aziraphale knows he’s by far overdone it. Something must be wrong with this corporation, as there’s no way humans were built to survive this much pain. He should just abandon his corporation and go back to heaven - 

Another swell of pain and nausea scatters his thoughts, and he lurches upright to gag uselessly once more. Oh, God take him, the pain is never ending…

* * *

Aziraphale, after what seems like hours, finally finishes, his last heaves catching on a sob. The angel looks a sorry sight panting on the ceramic. Crowley reaches out; to do what, he doesn’t know. Aziraphale makes up his mind for him as the angel’s fingers slip from the lavatory and he crumples to the floor. 

This, at least, Crowley knows how to fix. He kneels carefully and gently turns Aziraphale onto his side, but Aziraphale flinches away. Instead, Aziraphale groans faintly and pushes his face firmly into the crook of his arm. Crowley can hear him panting shallowly from his position on the floor.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says quietly. He places a soft hand on the angel’s arm, before lightly tugging downward. Aziraphale groans as his eyes are exposed to the light and he squeezes them tighter. Intuiting the problem, Crowley wills the lights off and Aziraphale sighs in relief. 

“What’s wrong, Aziraphale?” Crowley presses.

“Head bloody hurts,” Aziraphale croaks.

Crowley can feel the ethereal overextension radiating off the angel, and deduces the likely cause of his headache. 

“You need to rest, angel. Let’s put you to bed.”

“Don’t want to move,” Aziraphale says queasily. He swallows thickly on the floor.

“You’re going to have to,” Crowley replies firmly. “Now, c’mon, up you get.”

Aziraphale trembles, exhausted. Crowley stays close, but doesn’t rush him as the angel makes his way to hands and knees before swaying and dropping his head to floor. Aziraphale groans, low and miserable in his throat, and Crowley takes pity on him. They need to get upstairs to Aziraphale’s bedroom to solve this problem and it won’t happen if Aziraphale is on the floor. 

Without hesitating, Crowley grabs Aziraphale by the waist and hoists him vertically, bringing him all the way to standing. Aziraphale cries out at the sudden change in altitude and curls forward in agony. 

Crowley frantically readjusts his hold as Aziraphale sways wildly, then Aziraphale pivots and pushes his face into Crowley’s neck, blindly seeking darkness and stability. Hands clutch at Crowley’s shirt front, holding him in place. Crowley freezes.

* * *

Dimly, Aziraphale realizes this is probably making Crowley uncomfortable, but he’s in too much pain to care. He burrows deeper into the hollow of Crowley’s neck with a whine. Everything is too sharp and loud, scents and senses clashing behind his eyes. Crowley is familiar, dry deserts and spice. He can hear Crowley’s voice faintly as his brain sparks behind his eyes, but he can’t focus enough to make out the words.

Then there’s a miracle of disorientating, shifting, and moving and Aziraphale is horizontal in a bed. The sudden change makes his head seize in agony and Aziraphale cries out again. Gags, once, before he forces the nausea down with sheer force of will. 

Careful hands peel away his waistcoat and shoes and he feels the rough fabric of his pants miracle into silk pajamas. Then there is a cool hand on his forehead, gently removing his fists from where he’d unconsciously pressed them to his temples. Cool fingers rub at his forehead and the bridge of his nose and the pain relents slightly. It’s enough for him to crack open his eyes and see Crowley, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Crowley…”

“There you are, angel. What in heaven happened to you?”

Aziraphale closes his eyes again, pain shooting through his forehead. “Overexerted myself helping at the hospitals.” 

“That’s never happened before, why now?”

“Got attached, I suppose,” Aziraphale breathes. “Watched them all grow up. The neighbor’s son was in hospital, I went to visit. Then I kept visiting.”

“You have to take care of yourself first, Aziraphale. This is unacceptable, no matter how much good you’re doing.”

Aziraphale grimaces in pain, and Crowley cuts his lecture short. He can nag Aziraphale when he doesn’t look two seconds away from crying.

“Can I get you anything?”

“New corporation,” Aziraphale mumbles.

“Don’t joke about that,” Crowley says sharply.

“Alright,” comes the faint reply. 

Crowley continues to massage Aziraphale’s forehead and face, easing the pain lines carved into his face. 

The room is silent for a few minutes until Aziraphale whispers a soft, “Thank you,” on an exhale.

Within a few moments, the angel is asleep. The pain lines around his eyes smooth out, and Crowley brushes Aziraphale’s sweaty hair from his forehead absentmindedly. It’s likely been months since Aziraphale has gotten any rest and Crowley is determined his sleep will be peaceful. He’ll stay up all night if he has to. 

Crowley shifts and settles himself on the headboard. For several hours, he watches Aziraphale rest peacefully, but before long Crowley drops into the arms of Morpheus as well. 

The next morning, Crowley awakens to Aziraphale clamped to his side. It’s actually rather nice, but Crowley doesn’t want to embarrass Aziraphale when he wakes up. Crowley takes a few moments to bask in the deep contentedness that comes from being snuggled by an angel, then delicately extricates himself. 

He needn’t have worried, however. Aziraphale sleeps for another six days, and when he wakes up Crowley decides not to mention the cuddling at all. 

What he decides instead is to accompany Aziraphale to all future hospital visits. It wouldn’t do to have his angel fall under the weather again.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by [Pawns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19275886). If you liked this fic, you'll probably enjoy that one too!
> 
> Also, I'm aware that Aziraphale isn't actually in threat of discorporation here, but he _feels _like he's going to discorporate, which is close enough in my book.__
> 
> Thanks again to [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight/pseuds/drawlight) for editing and commenting on this work. Without them this piece would be weaker _and _it would have an excessive amount of commas.__


End file.
